I Hate Everything About You
by Carolyn Rose
Summary: A short one-shot seen through the eyes of a boy with an addiction. Can you figure out who it is? Who he's thinking about? Not a song-fic.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter nor any other related thematic elements written by JK Rowling. I Hate Everything About You by Three Days Grace.

**I Hate Everything About You**

_Every time we lie awake_

_After every hit we take_

_Every feeling that I get_

_But I haven't missed you yet_

_Every room we kept awake_

_By every sigh and scream we make_

_All the feelings that I get_

_But I still don't miss you yet_

_Only when I start to think about it  
__  
I hate everything about you_

_Why do I love you?_

_I hate everything about you_

_Why do I love you?_

_Every time we lie awake_

_After every hit we take_

_Every feeling that I get_

_But I haven't missed you yet_

_Only when I start to think about it_

_I hate everything about you_

_Why do I love you_

_You hate everything about me_

_Why do you love me?_

_Only when I start to think about you_

_I know_

_Only when you start to think about me_

_Do you know_

_I hate everything about you_

_Why do I love you_

_You hate everything about me_

_Why do you love me_

_I hate_

_You hate_

_I hate_

_You_

_Love me_

_I hate_

_Everything about you_

_Why do I love you?_

It wasn't the first time I had lied there, alone in the dark room, feeling her absence as corporeal. I felt the way the sheets crumpled and tangled at my feet, the bruise appearing on my arm where she had squeezed so hard only minutes ago, the scent of her hair still lingering in the hot air. But I didn't care.

There was ringing silence in the room and it dulled my thoughts. There wasn't much to think about. She came down for the first time three months ago and since then I would write her occasionally, only when I needed to, and she would come again. There were no words to be said save for each others names, and that was when we couldn't help it.

I love her eyes. There is beauty in the way they capture the dim light and spin it to gold which, when combined with tears, shines brighter than our differences. I forget who I am, I forget who she is, and I forget how much I hated her just minutes before. Her eyes have the power to strip me down to naught but her possession, eager to touch her, to taste her, to hold her under me. I forget.

She says she loves me. I can barely hear it at first, but it's there; she says it every fucking time. I know that she doesn't, but by that time I'm so lost in her that I can't spare the energy to disbelieve it.

When it is over, we lay in silence. I close my eyes and try not to remember who she is, and I listen to our ragged breath as my head spins. My fingers are still in her hair and sometimes our legs are tangled. Then, after a tense while, she gets up slowly and puts on her clothes. My eyes remain shut, I cannot bear to open them and look at her anymore. It is always so fast.

Now she is gone. I hate her. _I hate her._ I ask myself over and over and over why I let her leave. Why did I let her go? I let her in because I am beyond coherent thought, and I let her out for the same reason. But now that she's gone I can't stop thinking about my own stupidity, my addiction to her. That is essentially what it is—an addiction. I hadn't given it much thought before this night, but now it makes me feel sick.

Nothing about school has changed. It's not like I have any type of _longing_ for her, I never miss her, I never think about her, I never love nor hate her. She's just there, another one of the hundreds of girls that seem to have grown tired of me. But now...I can't avoid it. Maybe we've said twenty words to each other, those nights in my dormitory. There are advantages in being wealthy enough to have your own.

The next morning I receive a letter from her pathetic speckled owl, scrawled in watery black ink, asking me why I had been so rough the night before. I immediately shove it into the bottom of my bag and the back of my mind, refusing to think about it. Perhaps that is the problem...I can't even _think_ about her without becoming so lost in feelings of, hatred, confusion, and most maddeningly of all...love. Nobody seems to notice that my hands shake as I finish the rest of my breakfast.

After classes I pass her in the hallway but her eyes stay steadily focused ahead of her, swooping over me. Her mind was probably on normal things like _homework,_ or the next _Quidditch match_, or her perfect _boyfriend._ She even has a boyfriend. Maybe it's the fact that I hate him so much that makes fucking her seem so much more rational. But I doubt it.

Usually she keeps the sleeves of her white blouse rolled up to her elbows, but they were down and I knew that she hadn't had the time to charm the marks off. She always makes sure that everything is hidden, and it makes me furious. I want to _see_ the evidence, to know that she's real and that I'm not going crazy or entirely dreaming up the whole thing.

So I begin to run. I sprint straight to my dormitory, not pausing to stop by the library and pick up the books I need for my homework. Cool air whips my hot face as I slam the door to my dormitory shut, pausing only once I had locked it and was sitting on the icy stone floor, my back and head resting on the iron. My heartbeat does not slow and my frenzied thoughts cause me to jump up again, roughly throwing my bag on my bed and turning it upside down, emptying the entire contents.

The last thing to fall out is the damned letter. _I hate her_. I read it once more, scowling as it nearly falls out of my shaky hands. _She has beautiful handwriting_, I think, and I rip it up frantically into tiny little pieces, some of which flutter to the ground. I walk over to my desk, pulling a brass key out of pocket and shoving it into the lock on one of the drawers. I pull those letters out too, the ones I had kept in perfect condition by never opening.

Next I pull out the letters that _I_ had written, the ones she had always brought back to me. I never understood why she did that, but it was always the first thing she did before unbuttoning her shirt—she would walk over to me and silently slip it into one of my pockets, unchanged. Not that I looked at them.

I ripped those up too, shredding them hysterically to the point where each piece of paper could fit maybe just a single letter. I don't understand why I did that, they held no evidence and even if they did I wouldn't have cared because there was a part of me that wanted the entire world to know about us. It would ruin her and her perfect life but it wouldn't harm me. My life, as it seems, is already meaningless.

Somehow the hundreds of bits of paper are thrown into the fire. I do not remember how they got there, or why. Something at that moment seemed to burst inside my head and I have a feeling that it was the realization of my feelings for her. Each one had always kept its distance from the other and I only felt them one at a time. There was one that usually dominated over the others. So at that moment, they collide in one way or another, shattering each other and causing me to realize that I had absolutely no idea anymore. I wonder when it will happen to her.

The fire burns the colors that I always think of when we are together, but at the bottom are the blackening crisps that could probably very well describe the way my mind is working now. Why did I let it come to this? Why did I feel that I loved her so much all those nights? I _don't._ It must have been physical attraction—her intense eyes, glinting hair, thin waist and legs. But then there was her voice, her smile, and the way she touched me so differently than any other girl I'd ever been with. There was something intensely irresistible about her.

I fall asleep in front of the fire, interrupted and restless. I do not dream about her except for once, when my mind revisits our last night together, hazy and highly dramatized by what felt like the influence of the dream equivalent to hallucinogenic drugs. I wake up to a dark and alarmingly silent room, my limbs numb from having been on the cold stone floor so long. My cheeks are salty and stinging, and as I think about why, about _her_, a disgusting tear rolls down my face and roughly wipe it off, ashamed.

She did this to me. She corrupted me by coming down here; she taught how to feel the most powerful emotions, and not how to handle them. _Why did she do this to me? Why me, of all the people she could've picked? _I cannot fall back asleep until dawn for all the thoughts stirring in my head. _Never again._ _Never again._

When morning comes I am lying in my bed again, feeling her absence. There are no classes and thankfully I do not need to get up, but I probably wouldn't even if there were. How could I have faced her? I love her eyes too much.

A quill sits in my hand, finally steady, dipped in iridescent black ink and hovering over a small piece of parchment.

_Tonight_, I write.

**...........................................  
A/N: **To be honest, I have absolutely no idea where that came from. I wrote it in about an hour and a half after stumbling upon the song in a random folder on my computer, and I listened to it over and over in a constant loop. Not sure if I like it...tell me what you think. CoughreviewCough


End file.
